Page 13 of Our Sadie
If anything, she’s too thin.
Mom: Bake up some of those apple cider donuts, then. I’ll be over to pick them up.
Zach: Will do.
This is one of our many schticks. She knows where I am, just like she knows I’m shit as a cook. There’s been a lot of microwavable foods, frozen dinners, and take-out for our family since standing in front of the stove became dangerous for her.
Then, the take-out disappeared. Another indication, along with our moves to worse and worse neighborhoods, that the money from their savings was being siphoned away. Like a gas thief sucking a hose from your car’s tank.
Her medical bills aren’t going anywhere but up. Even with pulling out her 401K early due to the hardship of her illness, their money is still dwindling. Being professors means they’ve never been part of the one percent, even if I thought we were always just fine. And we were, until the cost of her various doctors and medications escalated.
But I don’t want to focus on that.
I turn myself to face the window, but I block out the nighttime views. Instead, I fall back on my training and close my eyes, utilizing a technique that centered me before every recital, audition, or performance.
Breathe in for a count of four. Breathe out for a count of six. And again.
By the time I reopen my lids, I have the presence of mind to study each of these rooms and envision Sadie within them. I imagine her playing darts and pool. Watching a movie and taking some downtime at the spa. Not that we could do all that on a single date without rushing.
Which of these would she enjoy the most?
Every woman appreciates their spa time. Don’t they?
Outside, there’s a ski lift as well as an entertainment area complete with a firepit, but I remember what Sadie said. An indoor date. Maybe we’ll try out the exterior stuff at some future time, but not yet. Not until she gives us access. So, what I need is something fun, special, and extraordinarily memorable.
No problem, right?
Such a date with a woman I know might not be difficult, but conducting this with Sadie is intimidating. Despite the time we spent together back in Boston—and the spark I think ignited between us—I don’t have enough information about her to determine what she’d like.
I get the feeling I’m going to have to roll with the punches on this one.
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AFTER DISCOVERING THE rudimentary lay of the land last night, I wake before everyone else the next day and aim straight for the pole. Exercise has this way of chilling me out. And since staying in shape isn’t just a routine but what used to be necessary for my bread and butter, sliding into my familiar series of warm-up stretches feels like coming home.
Once on the pole, I start with some easy spins, testing for any soreness in my knees. This morning, the level of tenderness is minimal, so I build up to more advanced moves until my core, thighs, and arms are all feeling the burn. I’m drenched with sweat as I revolve around the metal bar more slowly, and everything feels right. It’s my body reminding me I’m alive.
A body I no longer take for granted.
I return to my room to shower, and despite being up for quite a while at this point, the sun is just now cresting the forested mountains at the horizon. With its peach light frosting everything in sight, I slip through the quiet chalet toward the kitchen. I’ve just entered it, my eyes locating the massive stainless-steel fridge when I hear a gasp, and nearly jump out of my skin.
“Holy shit,” I say at the same time as an older woman with silvery gray hair hisses, “Good gracious Lord.”
She clutches her chest as if about to have a heart attack, and I swear if I’ve just killed this lady, I’ll never forgive myself. Fortunately, she recovers and leans over what I realize is a mound of raw sourdough spread over a flour-covered section of wax paper on the countertop.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she accuses, but before I can answer, she pushes on. “Look here, you can’t go sneaking up on people like that. Especially not at such an ungodly hour of the morning.”
Sneaking up on her? That’s hard to do when I didn’t even know she was here. Still, I apologize.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Which one are you, then?”
There’s the slightest of crisp accents. Like maybe British or Irish.
“I’m Zach,” I tell her, feeling like a kid who just pissed off his favorite grandma. “Zachary Neihaus. I’m uh... a friend of Sadie’s.” Or I hope to be.
I hope to be a hell of a lot more than that.